


A Footnote to a Fading Era

by Farrowe



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Alternate interpretation of Rudolf's death, Blood and Injury, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, Symbolism everywhere, lots and lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:59:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farrowe/pseuds/Farrowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When wishes, delusions, and reality intertwine, it is not only the world that changes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Footnote to a Fading Era

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schattentaenzer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schattentaenzer/gifts).
  * A translation of [Eine Fußnote der Zeit](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/58215) by schattentaenzer. 



> original author's comments: "This story will for the time being remain a one-shot, but will eventually be added to later. And I'm sticking with Rudolf x Death - forgive me! I hope you like it and I wish you all great pleasure in reading this. :) I look forward to comments and critiques. Warning for emotional stability: contains graphic suicide, which could be triggering!"

The little office is immersed in warm candlelight; the rain has already been pounding against the high window for hours. Rudolf sits restlessly at his desk, now and then scratching at paper with his pen; sometimes it pauses, utterly still, only to dance even more quickly upon the sheet of paper. His hurried writing sets down ideas – ideals – to which he clings, no matter how difficult it is in these times.

He no longer knows how long he has been sitting and writing here; time is not a commodity for him, not tonight; however, he hears the soft creak of the heavy wooden door clearly, and only his senses betray the identity of his guest. It is that spark of hope, the thought of peace and safety, which suddenly seizes him. But, as always, there is the cruel knowledge that he can never arrive at such a state, that it is only a foolish idea blossoming into an unattainable desire.

“What brings you here?” Rudolf’s voice is raw, almost stiff, for in the last days he has hardly spoken, secluded in the world of his thoughts, where speech is irrelevant. His visitor departs the semidarkness, steps into the unsteady light of the candles, and the nearly blinding white of his jacket calls the crown prince immediately to attention. Of course: he always appears in white when he writes political manifestos, when he thinks of a world united, free, and peaceful. Perhaps the colour symbolises the purity of his ideas, the absolute clarity of his mind; perhaps it is only one of Death’s whims, a ploy to provoke notice and distract him from his thoughts. The reason hardly matters in any case.

Then, naturally, he looks up at those fine features in the candlelight, at those eyes, dark as ever. A slender hand rests upon the desk; Death leans forward, closer to Rudolf, and searches his gaze with ice-blue eyes. A mid-length strand of blond hair detaches and falls on his pale forehead: Rudolf focusses on this, so that he might not lose himself and drown in that dark look.

“I felt like it, my prince.” That dark timbre will always be unfamiliar to his ears; time and again the first words of conversation send shivers through his spine. He can never grow used to that voice: its sound is too warm, and yet too dark, drawing him too deeply under its dangerous spell. But Rudolf tears himself away, glances aside at the rain-spattered window in displeasure. “You often do. If you’d take me with you, and release me from this miserable life, instead of tormenting me with these visits, then I’d stay with you – because, while I can see an escape there, I can never grasp it!”

“How poetic you can be. But I’ve told you many times that I can’t simply pluck you out of the world.” Death fixes his eye on the crown prince’s profile, missing no details, attempting to find something like resolution and more than just this wavering indecision.

“You don’t do anything without good reason. I want to die.”

“My prince, words won’t suffice – they’re not a magical formula for your release. There are only two ways: you can wait for your destiny to catch up with you, and for your time to come; or you can make the choice yourself, with all your heart, to come to me. It’s plain in your face that you lack the will and the resolve. These are nothing but words borne of your mood and your morbid game, and nothing can come of them. So I can’t do anything for you.” Death holds his position as he speaks, and stares still more intensely at the other’s face.

Rudolf still does not look at him, wishing to avoid any form of contact, though he knows that it is inevitable. He lowers his eyes nevertheless, and speaks instead to himself. “Sometimes I feel as though you don’t want to do anything for me.”

“It is my most ardent wish to be able to do something, finally, for you. But even so my hands are tied.” The last sentence is a touch too tender, and much too delicate, for something as obscene as death. But it occurs to Rudolf that all these new discrepancies of character are connected to himself, for he is exactly as he, facing him, imagines him to be; for the rest of humanity he is the embodiment of horror and brutality. It is in fact, after some thought, something which suits death, when he sinks deeply into reverie. He would rather possess something like a personality beyond the black-and-white thinking of this world; Rudolf gives this to him, at least for a moment, and sees a friend and equal in him. There are moments in which he wishes for eternity, though he exists in it.

Yet Rudolf misses these thoughts, does not see the glimmer in those night-black eyes; he knows only his own self-chosen suffering. “You have done nothing for me. You haven’t, not once, fulfilled my wish.”

Meanwhile, death has straightened and rested a hand thoughtfully on his back. “You say that so often. It would be possible if you really wanted it… but you must choose it yourself. Only your will counts. You need to bring strength into it.”

Rudolf seems not to want to understand the words; there is a flash in those blue eyes, followed by his voice, growing steadily louder. “How am I to muster the strength when I’m nothing but a shadow of myself? When my life is nothing more than a shred of paper?!” The last few words are nearly a scream, and with a single movement of his hand the crown prince thrusts the evening’s work from the desk. The parchment falls to the floor; an inkwell shatters, spilling deep blue ichor upon the luxurious carpet. Death is unimpressed by this, but examines for a moment the chaotic assortment on the floor and the bare desk. He approaches Rudolf slowly, circles the workspace, and stands behind the crown prince, who through all this has remained in his seat. He senses his counterpart’s discomfort in every corner of his mind. His voice is calm, by contrast to Rudolf’s.

“Clearly you can muster the energy for that – because you are nothing more than a shadow; a footnote to a fading era. These visits of mine are just omens, and you know that.” A balled fist comes as his mute answer, but the crown prince’s hand shakes unsteadily, suspended, then sinks uselessly to the oaken surface. He tries with all his might to straighten his shoulders and sit fully upright again, to present the image of a dignified prince; but his voice betrays him, for it is much too brittle: “That’s horrible.”

There is nothing but soft laughter, not malicious, but rather a reaction to an incontrovertible fact. “I’m Death: that’s how I am.”

“Horrible and beautiful.” Lost in his thoughts, Rudolf inclines his head slightly; strands of blond hair fall into his face. He whispers, so quietly as hardly to be understood, the last word so soft that its sound is almost consoling, momentarily altering the harshness of the first.

Lured by the melody of these words, Death lays a slender hand on Rudolf’s neck. The contact is hot, and sends a shudder through Rudolf. The skin touching him is so infinitely warm – not too hot, but neither as miserably cold as the world. A finger travels under the collar of his uniform and with the help of a fingernail draws a welt up to his hairline.

Rudolf winces; the heat is bordering upon the unbearable, and he feels as though a cat has made a swipe of its paw at him, and whispered directly into his ear, heavy, rough: “Horrible…” Those lips take leave of his ear and press a tiny, calculated kiss on the crown prince’s throat, followed by a second, then a third, then again by that promise-laden voice over his ear. “…and beautiful.”

In Rudolf there is a hesitation approaching surrender, but he manages to bring himself back upright, to find the voice and not to let himself be ensnared by the clandestine power of these dark meetings. “I can’t. There are people who love me and need me – who appreciate me.” It is a lie, and unconvincing at that; it sounds much too hollow. Death lets his hands rest on Rudolf’s shoulders in the meantime and slowly begins to massage them, attempting to loosen the tight muscles.

“You know that those are just words. Who is it, then? – your mother, who used and discarded you? – your father, who along with Taaffe would often rather see you dead than alive? – that insane little thing called Mary, who throws her arms around your neck and can’t think a single thought for herself?” Death feels the crown prince’s deep breath under his fingers, but there is no reply, no retort. “Or – wait. Do you mean your flighty little harlot, Mizzi?”

There is certainly a quiet rage within him now, but it finds no expression; Rudolf seems too tired. He rises slowly from his chair and stands facing death, who does not relinquish his grip on his shoulders.

“Leave. Get out of my sight.”

It is a weary demand, no more.

“Leave, damn you!” This is a little stronger, yet heavy, anguished, and worn.

Death does not himself know clearly why he acts thus: here once again are all these facets which Rudolf has given him, and they bear likeness to the soon-approaching daylight. He leans forward, so close to the crown prince’s face that he can count every weary shadow. In those blue eyes he searches for the lost gleam of the old days; loose strands of hair falling haphazardly in the lines of his handsome face – for despite all these signs of self-neglect there remains a fascinating beauty. It is hidden, by now only the sheen in that blond hair or the curve of those lips – but it is there, and it moves Death to action. His own lips draw near; he speaks against Rudolf’s mouth, with only millimetres to part them.

“It all hurts me as much as it does you…” His left forefinger strokes the crown prince’s pale cheek. “Because I love you. I love you, in what way I can. Isn’t that worth so much more than this broken body confining you? I can give you so much – everything you’ve never gotten.”

Rudolf searches those dark eyes, beguiled by the words and the abnormal closeness. It is the first real confession of love in all thirty years of his dismal life. Plenty of women have breathed the words in his ear – Mary screams them sometimes in a horribly shrill voice, while from Mizzi they sound nearly comforting. But these were merely sweet nothings, and the words a disposable means to an end – neither eternal nor true. However… these bittersweet words from death are true, and the certainty frightens and disturbs Rudolf deeply. The desire to leap is overwhelming, but the crown prince stops himself, held back by fear. “You… you can’t. No. What would you give me other than nonexistence – an end? You can’t give me what I… need. Go. Please, just go.”

But Death is not fooled: he remains, so intoxicatingly close, and his words are still bitterer, and for it all the sweeter. “I can give you much more than just an ignominious end, my prince.”

As he speaks he removes himself, and departs this world. His prince’s wishes are his commands, and his hands are still inescapably bound. Yet it feels now as though a rope is tied around his throat. It is time to return to his world, to part company, before this defeat becomes too painful. But something grasps at his wrist – a voice is calling. “No, stay!”

Rudolf snatches at the wavering physical presence with his hand; Death is unusually cold and immovable. He almost wants to let go again, for that icy feeling in him does not soften; but then warmth returns bit by bit – tingling heat in his fingertips, skin growing softer and tenderer. Rudolf’s fear gives way to fumbling; finally he stands upon a longed-for cusp, and it feels, definitely, indubitably, that here is courage; resolution. The crown prince gropes on the desk for the dagger bearing the crest of Austria-Hungary. How ironic: his own kingdom will destroy him. As he holds the dagger in the light of the candle-flame, and sees the blade flash, he feels a warm hand lifting his left arm up high, holding it tightly with calm deliberation. Another hand rests upon the handle of the weapon, and Rudolf realises that death is standing right behind him – that he will not die alone, that this warmth will accompany him.

Together they bring his arm closer; the movement is an impulse which both obey. Death slowly guides the blade onto Rudolf’s shoulder and makes a slit in the cloth up to the wrist, but does not wound his tender skin. Carefully, death places the dagger on the right side of the vein which is to be cut; the exposed wrist is pale.

His voice breathes in the crown prince’s ear: “I can take you no further. The rest lies with you.” Before death has finished speaking, Rudolf draws a precise cut from his wrist up to his elbow and finishing at his shoulder; the dagger lands with a clatter on the floor, relinquished by reflex.

Red, everything is red – blood-red. Rudolf does not see his life ebbing but closes his eyes and feels only the heat of a hand resting on the endless stream.

And then kisses fall in his neck, upon his throat, in indefinable places along his hairline. Only the existence of these touches is clear; they calm him, support him. In the meantime two arms wrap around his belly and remain there, protecting; and still come more kisses, and Rudolf’s consciousness steadily fades.

He does not notice that he is falling to his knees, and that death is following, sitting behind him. Everything is merely a flickering reality – not nothingness, nor yet solidity. Death watches the flow of blood and looks at the crown prince’s face, growing paler and more beautiful for it, and so draws closer to him. So little still separates them. His prince is here in his arms, all concealed feelings set free, fluttering clumsily about like young birds.

But it is not yet over.

“My prince…” Death reaches for the wounded hand and searches for a hold on it as he picks up the fallen dagger. A blood-spattered coat of arms greets him; the downfall of the monarchy could not be more certain, but time is too precious for philosophies and prognoses.

A quick, minute, though effective slit along his own wrist; Death is pervaded by an unbearable pain, and midnight-blue blood finds its way, trickling slowly. Rudolf just perceives death’s self-inflicted wound and sees the deep blue blood with its curious shimmer; the ooze is lovely and viscous, not of this world.

“Real blue blood for my prince…” Death forces a laugh and with a great effort lifts his wrist and presses it against where the crown prince is bleeding. His bloodcurdling shriek echoes through Mayerling, as though the mixing of their worlds is no longer endurable. To compose himself he seeks out Rudolf’s hand and as their blood mingles their fingers tightly interlace. A second scream escapes, inhumanly high.

But Rudolf no longer hears the sound; he feels only the pleasant, comforting warmth of his life, the feeling of finally having arrived. At last he glides away from time, as though warm lips rest against his own: a single kiss from his blood-brother takes him away from this time for ever.

This is maintained with difficulty despite the throbbing agony in his wrist. The kiss is hungry, searching – voracious – permanently sealing his end and their bond. Rudolf falls limp in his arms, skin chalk-white, eyes shut: for Death, an ideal beauty. He carefully lays the crown prince down upon the floorboards and stands, taking from the floor the pen which Rudolf swept from the desk in his moment of rage. Death brings the tip to his own, still-open wound, and fills it with his blood as though it were ink. The deep, dark blue is in any case a little reminiscent of it, even if its gleam seems alien. Yet this blood does not act according to physical laws: it seems alive, and to obey its master. It envelops the point as if by its own doing and dances in a line up the pen.

Death twitches again, in time with this remarkable spell; he is still in agony, but it makes the bittersweet reality all the more immediate. Smiling, he sits before Rudolf, who is still bleeding, cut by that smile from his diminishing life. That blood becomes his canvas; Death begins to draw with the pen. Quick, neat strokes join together, floating unnaturally upon the dark red; first upon the left side of the body, then upon the right, and then death, finishing, straightens and examines his work thoroughly.

He has given his fallen angel new wings: finely drawn, feathery wings frame Rudolf, seeming every second as though ready to come to life. Only their appearance suggests how soft those feathers must feel. If Death is honest, this action bears no skill, carries no meaning whatsoever; it does not matter at all how the body is to be left. But he loves a perfect image, a sigh filled with pathos. And Rudolf is nothing more than a fallen angel, whom he has given new wings.

A visual metaphor.


End file.
